


Winchester and Sons

by SweetSamaritan



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Band Fic, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSamaritan/pseuds/SweetSamaritan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winchester and Sons are the biggest up-and-coming band Texas has seen in years, headed by partners Mark Sheppard and Jarred Padalecki. Talk of the band is big, each and every member somehow managing to steal a heart somewhere down the line, but that doesn't appease one particularly shy vocalist who (rumour has it) gave his a way a long time ago to his best friend in College.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: My Sweet Son

Part One

My Sweet Son

Warm arms snaked their way around his waist, dull nails scratching idly at the warm skin beneath the faded cotton of his shirt. Jensen shivered, shocks running along his spine making his fingertips tingle in surprise as warm breaths ghosted across his neck and collarbone, small smile tugging at his lips as his own hands came up to tangle themselves in thick familiar locks of brown hair. 

“Hey,” Jared murmured, voice low. “Thought I might find you here.”

“I don’t stray far – you know that,” Jensen hummed back, eyes fluttering closed. “Can’t get enough of seein’ it ya’know?”

He found himself melting back into the warm structure behind him, body hard pressed against his back, sturdy, familiar, strong. They stood in silence for a while, eyes drinking in the site of their new addition, gold album lightly framed in black, their names forever encased beneath the glass. It was true – he never really did get tired of looking at it, the landmark tour, the photos, their signatures, the rings of gold that’d always catch the light in just that right way forcing his eye, his attentions always returning to it even when he was knee deep in paperwork. He knew Jared was the same if not worse… but that was how their lives were now. Promotion after promotion, gig after gig, touring the continent, sharing space, food, guitars – even a bed every now and again when they managed to snatch that precious time alone with one another. 

Jensen carded his fingers softly though his lover’s hair, smiled lightly as he felt a warm thumb hook itself beneath his jaw, allowed his head to be tilted, lips encased in tastes of mint and sugar, dizzy with the heat of warm breaths and lack of air. Yeah… this was how their lives were now and he wouldn’t change it for a-

“Jensen! Get the fuck outta’ bed! Jensen! Jenny! Fuck - shift your lazy ass!”

His eyes popped open, Jensen dragging two rough hands down his weary face before turning to beat his alarm into submission. His lights, seeming to register the time, dully burst into life above his head making him wince and forcing him to retreat beneath the pillows and covers of his bed, away from the light, away from his alarm and away from his sister’s voice as she continued to holler at him from just beyond his bedroom door.

“Jen – Jensen! Fuck’s sake – Marsh rang. Car’s picking us up in fifteen. Marpel? Mar – Mark? Mark where the fuck are you?”

He sighed inwardly as her footsteps dissipated, soft slap of feet disappearing somewhere around the corner – possibly to seek out Marpel who was more than likely in the same state as Jensen, worn out, half asleep and seeking solace in his comforter against the tirade that was Danneel Ackles. Mark Pellegrino had stuck with them through thick and thin for years – but Jensen always found himself questioning his own loyalty let alone Marpel’s when Danneel went on her morning warpath. And boy – this was one hell of an example.  
Jensen groaned and rolled out of bed, landing bare foot on the laminate. He shouted his response, a far less than audible moan he hoped would appease his sister for at least a little while before padding lightly to his bathroom, shucking off his sweatpants and boxers before stepping beneath the shower to wash away the dregs of sleep he could still feeling clinging to his body and weighing him down. The water was ice cold, Jensen far too lazy to bother waiting for it to heat up before submerging himself, allowing the spray to bathe his face and force the air from his lungs with the sudden shock of it. There was a tightness in his chest he put down to his sudden rousing – though the little voice that muttered incessantly at the back of his mind attempted to convince him otherwise. ‘That was your third dream this week’ it said, ‘when are you gonna’ stop?’

Jensen exited the room on rolling waves of steam and scent, mouth frothing with peppermint (a taste that had gooseflesh rising against his arms for no good reason), fingers tapping lightly against the screen of his phone as he did his usual morning admin, checking emails, checking messages and so on and so on. There was nothing overly exciting occurring in the world save the death of this person or that or the bombing of some place here or there, mind blankly closing down his apps until –

“Fuck,” he muttered, spitting foam into the nearest potted plant. “Oh for fuck’s sa – Danny!”

“Oh I’m so pleased you’re awake Jen I really-”

“Cut the crap,” he snapped back, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Danny it’s Thursday!”

Her shadow appeared beneath the door, Jensen wrapping his towel around his waist that little bit tighter as his sister slipped through, expression on her face somewhere halfway in between irritancy and understanding (as was so often the case with her). Despite wanting to kick his ass she seemed far more placid than she had been ten minutes previous, roughly shaking a hand through her red hair as she eyed her brother with general distaste.

“It’s Thursday,” he added again, a little more slowly in case she hadn’t understood him the first time round.

“It’s Thursday,” she repeated with a sigh. “Guess Matt’ll need to call a car.”

“Meet you there?” 

“Do we have any other choice?” she huffed.

“Not really,” he laughed, throwing a quick smile over his shoulder before returning to the bathroom. “It’s Thursday Dan – its tradition.”

(.:.)

Jensen barely allowed the company car to pull up outside the shop before he was out on the sidewalk, gesturing for his driver to wait. It was the only place of its kind Jen knew of that opened so early on a Thursday morning, row after row of sweets and treats illuminated by neon lights that flickered into life above his head, the big bold white letters of ‘LAWRENCE’S’ cutting through the hazy October morning like a beacon. 

Jensen turned his collar up against the wind and slipped inside; jangle of the bell as familiar a sound as his own alarm clock as his eyes roamed the shelves. It was a Thursday tradition, one he’d never missed save that once when he’d ended up in hospital after a bar fight, the only time he’d ever really pulled Jared away from his work on a morning. He knew it, Danny knew it, Misha knew it – hell even Matt knew it having been the one to order the car for him. It was just the way things were – the way things had always been.  
“Jensen – my man!”

He turned, caught eyes with Colin and clapped a hand in his, small smile spreading into a grin at the look on the kid’s face. Colin Ford was one of his oldest friends, like a little brother in more ways than one. But – in his pinstriped cap and apron he was exactly who he’d come to see on his usual Thursday snack run, Jensen content and relaxed enough in the kid’s presence to lean against the counter, finger looping round a stray liquorice strand and, with a wink, sucked it in between his teeth.

“Have you grown a bit kid?”

“Why thank you for noticing,” he beamed, snapping another Twizzler in half. 

“Gonna’ be as tall as your brother one of these days – shit Colin stop growin’ up,” he chuckled, accepting the half Colin offered him, chewing on the end thoughtfully. “What are you now like-”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen,” Jensen repeated thoughtfully, barely even able to recall himself at that age. 

“I’m guessing it’s the usual then Jen?” He smirked, backing off, his gaze turned to the rows of colourful jars that lined the walls. “Two hundred isn’t it?”

“Ain’t it always?”

He shrugged, “Same old Jensen.”

“Same old me.”

Jensen watched in silence as Colin reached for the usual jar of rainbow laces, a jar that was nowhere near as hard to reach as it had been a month ago when the kid had needed a step ladder to even get close. It was things like that that made his stomach curl in on itself, a brotherly feeling, a warmth that buzzed in his gut whenever Colin grew or got an A in math or discussed with him on no Thursday in particular how his date had gone with the chick from his Science class. Thursday was Thursday, a tradition, a constant, something that never changed because Jensen simply wouldn’t allow it to. Colin was behind the bar, rainbow laces were always well stocked and it was always two hundred grams of the things rain or shine. It felt good – always did. 

He flicked absentmindedly through the radio stations as the kid measured out the sweets, never really settling on one station for one reason or another – the music was too ‘Pop-y’, the lead singer of the group was an asshole and on and on and on. Both Colin and Jen froze as a familiar sound leaked out over the static of the speakers, rustling into some semblance of life like a piece of paper becoming uncrumpled and flattened out, lyrics learnt by heart and a voice far too close to home for comfort filling the silence of the store like a prayer. Jensen made to turn the channel but Colin merely slapped him round the back of the head and flicked an M&M in his eye to warn him off, nimble fingers twisting the volume up a notch or two as the blush in the older man’s own cheeks rose with each coming line.

Your heart it breaks and shatters hard  
You hide beneath your silver scars  
But oh dear boy it’s worth the pain  
So pray, just pray.  
My sweet son.

“Colin-”

The younger boy tutted him, swatting at his hands again as Jen returned his attentions to trying to shut the infernal contraption up, face thick with heat.

“You never told me you had a radio release Jen,” Colin smirked, flicking another M&M in Jensen’s vague direction. “Why’s that hmm?”

“I er-”

Colin clapped a hand over Jensen’s mouth, older man scowling at him from beneath his lashes, embarrassment continuing to colour his cheeks as his own voice erupted out over the radio, the harmonies he sung with Genco seeming to sate the vibrating machine as it drifted smoothly from between the speakers. Danneel’s voice returned then, soft and sweet like honey as she drew the song to a swift close, Colin seeming a little too caught up in the sound of it as his hand fell away from squeezing Jensen’s face shut, the older of the two rotating his jaw a little to rid himself of the tension. 

'That was My Sweet Son by up and coming band Winchester and Sons. Rumour has it manager Mark Sheppard and right hand man Jared Padalecki are on the verge of –'

“Hey!” Colin whined as Jensen flicked stations, relaxing a little as the soft comforting twang of thick country replaced the honey of his sister’s voice.

“What? I came here to get my order not listen to myself on the radio,” he huffed, making a grab for the bag Colin had folded on the desk. “Colin,” he warned, gaze stern, “I’m gonna’ be late enough as it is kid – you don’t want Danny after you do you man?”

Jensen tried not to smile as the boy’s eyes widened, bangs falling into his eyes from beneath his cap as he vigorously shook his head, bag held out to him like an offering.

“Run like the wind Jen – for the love of God.”

“I thought as much,” he scoffed, pocketing the paper bag in his jacket before pushing the cash across, slipping a note into the kid’s apron pocket with a soft tap against his nose.  
“That’s between you and me Col – okay?”

“M’kay,” he beamed.

“And no more of that radio crap either – you hear me?” he threw back, exiting the store before he could hear the kid’s reply. As Jensen slipped back into the car he knew he wouldn’t have too much of a problem, not with the threat of Danny on his tail anyway. His driver pulled off, Jensen almost sad to see the white lights of Lawrence’s fade into the mist of one particularly grey Thursday morning, groaning inwardly. Misha and Marpel would be insufferable, Marsh would be groggy and Danny – well he’d already had his fair share of her already. All that left was Genco and Jay and, knowing Genevieve, she’d be too busy rounding up the boys and keeping them in check to listen to him moan and whine about how tired he was or how Colin had grown. And so that left Jay…

Jensen shivered against the leather of the seats, skin flushing horribly scarlet as the events of last night’s subconscious made to rear their ugly head. He shook them away and stamped them down, fingers plucking at the paper of the bag in his pocket to tether him down to the real world and his real thoughts, content enough that it was Thursday, that although he was tired and spent from a week of work he got to see the look on Jay’s face when he’d drop the bag on his desk, run a hand through his hair and instruct him not to eat them all in one go – to make them last. Jensen knew they wouldn’t, knew they never had, but it was always two hundred grams and never more – Jared’s mama had told him so. ‘To save his teeth’ she’d said, ‘can’t have him rotting now can we?’ And Jensen had nodded his head that family meal as though he’d understood, careful not to let her see the bag of gummy bears he was passing her son beneath the table. Some things never really changed – that was one of them. 

(.:.)

Jared felt his head connect with the shade of his lamp before he could even open his eyes and stop himself. He scrabbled blindly, eyes becoming accustomed to the light in his office as papers began to fall in a steady cascade off his desk, drunken hands fumbling to catch the oncoming tide and, realising his efforts were fruitless, allowed the surge to occur before falling to his knees to collect it all up with a soft curse and a slightly louder groan as he banged the back of skull on the underside of an open drawer on his way back up. 

There was a small knock on the door, his reactions slow as he heaved himself back into his chair, Jared taking to palm the sleep away from his eyes with the heels of his hands as his vision blurredly focused in on his boss standing in his doorway, small smirk on his lips, cup of fresh coffee offered to him in an outstretched hand. 

“Morning sunshine,” he irked, leaning forward as Jared relieved him of his burden, nodding his thanks. “Taken up residence again in the old office have we?”

Jared bowed his head and immersed himself in the caffeinated fumes, thankful for the mug of warmth as though it was a gift from God himself. He sipped at it gingerly, nectar falling sweet and hot against his tongue as it washed away the scent and taste of sleep, mouth no longer dry and tongue no longer feeling brittle. 

“Sorry Mark I – we had a call come in after you left that needed taking. I guess I-”

“Never left?”

Jared smiled into his coffee, “Yeah – I guess so.”

Sheppard crossed the boundary line, something he never often did, perching himself on the edge of Jared’s desk, younger man falling back a little in his chair as Mark’s eyes scrutinised the papers that littered the worktop. His fingers flipped through book after book of his loopy scrawl, eyes taking in notes, phone numbers, tax accounts, balances, cheques – all of the above organised in one mass disarray and partially organised chaos. Mark had worked with Jared since the kid had been in his teens, but he’d never once learnt how the kid could be so messy and unorganised yet still find him that one phone number he needed in amongst it all at the drop of a hat. The kid had talent – Mark Sheppard didn’t just waste his precious time on anyone. 

“Jared-”

“Listen,” he sighed, holding up his hands in his defence, coffee teetering on the edge of a coaster. “I know what you’re gonna’ say Marsh and I get it – really I do. It’s just somethin’ that needed doing that’s all.”

“Then – Christ Sasquatch get Matt to do. That’s what I bloody hired him for,” he huffed, dipping a biscuit in his own tea, taking a bite out of it, turning the once whole Jammy Dodger (he had them imported) into a soggy half-moon of biscuit and jam. “Don’t make me force a holiday out of you Jarpad – you know I don’t like doing that.”

“You know that-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, waving his hand in the kid’s face, Jared barely able to keep himself from laughing. “If you can do it yourself then why get someone else to?”

Jared took a swig from his coffee and placed the mug down empty, back of his throat burning and tears springing to the corners of his eyes for its efforts. But he was awake – that was what mattered. 

“Get your shit together anyway,” Mark added, one foot set over the boundary line as he began to retreat. “The kids are here in ten.”

“M’kay,” he murmured, massaging the bridge of his nose with one hand, scratching the numbness at the back of his head with the other. 

“Oh – and Jared?”

Jared raised his gaze, “Yeah?”

“You go home tonight or I’m knocking you on your bloody arse and dragging you there myself. You got that kid?”

He snorted, stretching his long arms out over his head, wincing a little as his joints cracked, “loud and clear.”

(.:.)

Jensen found that, despite the delays, he’d made it back in fairly good time. What he walked in on was entirely expected, Jen having psyched himself up for the madness that would undoubtedly ensue when the band was called together on such short notice; Misha with Marpel in a headlock and – no wait Marpel with Misha in a headlock, Danny and Genco catching a coffee whilst placing bets on who’d hit the floor first, Matt scurrying around the place, papers flying from his arms, headset on as he muttered and hummed into it like an incessant bee. Yeah – Winchester and Sons were real professional. 

(.:.)

Despite his promises, Jared had remained in his office, head still buried in his books. The phone had been off the hook, press releases, tour dates, gigs, charity events – all in the wake of the radio release that had taken the local charts by storm. People seemed to like their sound and, probably even more of an influence, the people seemed to like the band. The boys were playful and down to earth, loved kids and had personalities large enough you could barely squeeze them in a room together without exploding. And the girls… well the girls were gorgeous. Danneel was a bombshell with a mane of fiery hair, had had many interviewers comparing her to Paramore’s lead Hayley Williams though Danny has always shrugged it off. She wasn’t like that – none of them were. And Genevieve –

“Ahem.”

Jared dropped out of his thoughts like a bomb, eyes flickering over to the door where Jensen stood, casually leaning against the doorframe, bag in his hands and lips quirked in a humoured smile. Jared tried not to think about how long he’d been there – he tended to pull some odd faces when he worked and that wasn’t exactly how he wanted to start off his first proper conversation on a Thursday morn… Thursday?

“You forgot… didn’t you?” Jensen smirked, waggling the bag in his hands. 

“Only because I’m useless and-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he muttered, pulling the bag out of the larger man’s reach, earning himself a pout to rival that of West’s. 

“Jen – what the-”

Jared squirmed a little as his friend’s eyes narrowed, feeling his gaze roam his body as he wriggled in his seat like a fish on a line. He knew he could see everything, knew he’d noticed it all by the way he sighed, bag discarded, palms laid flat against the wood of the desk so that he could look him straight in the eye.  
“Same clothes as yesterday?”

“Jen-”

Jensen held up a hand. “Let me finish – I’m getting pretty good at this.”

Jared sighed but let him continue on regardless, large arms crossed over his chest.

“Same clothes as yesterday, you haven’t brushed your hair but you’ve been brushing your hands through it – you used to do that at College man I know that ruffled look anywhere,” he smirked, Jared reddening slightly. “You smell like... like Old Spice which means you showered in the Call Room last night – Jay you didn’t fuckin’ go home last night did you?”

Jared shook his head.

“For fuck’s sake – have you even had breakfast?”

Again, the younger man shook his head.

“Oh my actual – when we’re done here I’m taking you out for something to eat you freakin’ moron.”

Jared was adamant, there was still a lot of work to be done but, by the look on Jensen face, there’d be no arguing with him. He sighed, collecting up his papers on his desk before shoving them into a draw, Jensen’s gaze still boring down through the top of his head as he pushed his glasses up into his hair to keep it out his eyes. He fixed his friend with a gaze that warned him, Jared’s blood running a little bit colder as he attempted to continue to operate underneath the weight of it, edging his way around Jen slightly to hang his scarf up against the back of the door. 

“What’s the plan boss man?”

There was that humour Jen was known for, and Jared very visibly relaxed at the sound of it, melting away his tensions like ice under the sun. He heard a thump outside, a cheer quickly following, both men turning their attentions towards the boisterous children just beyond the confines of Jay’s office, Misha sitting atop Marpel’s back, Mark’s face eating laminate flooring, his arm hooked behind his back where Misha had his knee. Danny slipped Genco a few bills, face sour, and it seemed that after all this, Misha still remained victorious. 

“Well we’re-”

“WRITING!”

Jared and Jensen nearly both jumped out of their skin at the sound of Marsh’s voice bellowing across the hall, all manner of shenanigans freezing mid scuffle as the band turned to face their manager. Matt hovered at Marsh’s back, lips still buzzing into the headpiece (possibly apologising to a client for the sudden outburst), Marsh’s head peeking around the corner of his PA’s office to fix the boys with his most authoritative look (the type that pulled rank).

“I want another fucking hit churned out before the end of this week boys. You hear me?”

Jared turned his back on Marsh and caught Jensen’s look, both boys grinning.

“I heard you Sheppard,” Jared smiled, nudging Jen in the shoulder with his fist, collecting his notebooks from a filing cabinet next to his desk. “Loud and clear.

“Sir. Yes sir!” 

It was a Thursday and Jared had forgotten. It was a Thursday and that meant it was a J2 day, a day Mark would force together his two best and brightest and stick them in a room to make magic, to write and create the only way they knew how. Thursdays were Jared and Jensen days, the gang knowing this having accepted that fact a long time ago. It was the way things worked – always had. Thursday’s were rainbow lace days and it seemed as though that was what Jared would be eating for his breakfast if Jensen didn’t kick his ass before he got the chance. 

(.:.)

On writing days the gang usually practiced, which often meant mucking around for half the time before actually getting any work done. Mark liked Thursdays because it gave him material, and Matt liked Thursdays because that tended to mean everyone was out of his hair. Jared was a Thursday man because not only did he get to eat sugar in its most colourful of forms but it also dragged him out the office to get back to basics – something he didn’t often get a chance to do. And then there was Jensen, who simply enjoyed the company of his best friend, their guitars and whatever spilled from their minds onto a page.

The words ‘Son of a Gun’ screamed at them both from atop the blank lined page, the light in The Bunker light enough to see but not blinding, Jensen having to squint a little to concentrate though more often than not it was Jared doing the writing and not him. He merely verbalised his thoughts and put a tune to them, Jared then picking up on his cues would write down what made sense and take notation on whatever it was that Jen would strum on his guitar, leading to song after song after song crumpled into balls at their feet before the final draft would be ready for testing. They were a well-oiled machine – at least they liked to think so anyway. 

Writing came naturally to them – after all it was how they’d met all those years ago back in College. When they were together something ‘meshed’ as Marsh liked to put it, a spark ignited and began to burn with a heat Jensen never got with anyone else. He’d tried to write with Marpel before, gave a crack at it with Danny once though that ended apocalyptically (he’d never ever make that mistake again), but he never got the same results. It was just Jared which, whenever he thought about it, seemed to be his life’s mantra.  
He leant back into his corner of the sofa, tucked a leg beneath him, guitar lying lazily in his loose grip as he studied his partner, Jared’s gargantuan body bent double over a notebook that seemed far too small for his size, pen steadily scribbling away against the paper beneath that accursed heading. His brow was furrowed in his concentration, lips slightly pursed, eyes reading like typewriters across what he’d just written, devouring text, Jen swearing he could hear a ‘ding’ every time Jared would reach the end of one line and move onto the next. Every now and again he’d chew the end of his pen or suck another lace between those lips, the older of the pair forcing himself to look away lest he relieve the events of the night prior, guilt forcing his hand. 

“Jensen? What is it?”

Jensen’s head jerked up to catch a pair of steady hazel eyeing him warily, concern crinkling their corners, Jared still absentmindedly chewing the pen lid, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear as he readjusted his reading glasses, Jensen never really wanting to admit even to himself that he’d wanted to be the one to do that for him.

“Nothin’,” Jensen muttered, ducking his head, eyes falling to the strings of his guitar as he returned to plucking them mindlessly, one hand motioning to the lapel of Jared’s jacket. “Just er – you got a bit of sugar there Jay.”

“Oh,” Jared smiled, brushing the granules from the fabric, sucking the remains from his fingers like a child, “Thanks man – didn’t realise.”

“Yeah er,” Jensen murmured, running a hand over his face, mouth barren. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jensen nearly pissed himself when his phone went off in his pocket, nearly dropping his guitar in the process and receiving an incredibly curious look from Jared that made him want to curl up and die. He frowned when he checked the sender, Matt wasn’t really that big on texting, brow furrowed even more when the opened the mail and scanned his eyes over it, words ‘Behave urself. Play nice’ sounding all the more like his medalling sister than the PA with the six pack. 

“Do you need-”

“Nah,” Jensen muttered, shutting off the phone and chucking against the opposite couch, eyeing the innocent device as though it was the devil incarnate. “It’s nothin’ – just Matt. Where were we?”

He forced his mind back on task, promised himself vengeance against the demon queen in days to come, fingers sentimentally caressing the strings as he brought sound to the words in his head. Music oozed out of him gradually, eyes fluttered closed as the walls of The Bunker collected it and bounced it straight back for him to catch, their whole atmosphere filled to the brim with the sweet acoustic melody. If they agreed on his sound it’d suit Danny’s voice just fine, honey for honey, ice for ice, each a compliment to the other as they’d meld and shape their way through the lyrics falling from his lips, lyrics Jared captured with the tip of his pen. It was beautiful stuff – just the kind of thing to bring him down, force him to wind down the clot of nerves that had entangled themselves in his gut. That was until he felt those soft, warm eyes on him – then it all went to shit.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Jensen bit out before he could stop himself, immediately regretting letting them fly.

Something crossed Jared’s face fleetingly, far too fast for Jensen to catch before he was back to his stoic, passive self. “Was about to ask you the same question.”

He frowned, “what do you mean?”

“I dunno’ man,” he shrugged, setting pad and pen down on the side, “just didn’t know that you and Matt were-”

Jensen’s eyes widened, “What?”

“Well you seemed pretty flustered when he text you Jen – and I know Matt doesn’t spend his time texting just anyone so – I’m just saying that whatever you guys are up to I’m happy for you and it’s your business so-”

“We’re not up to anything Jared it’s – just never mind its complicated okay?”

Jensen squirmed when he heard his voice soften, Jared’s paw coming down large and hot against one of his shoulders, engulfing it. Jensen couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to lean into the warmth or pull away, the heat and the contact overpowering, scrambling him – but the thought of it gone and leaving him cold wasn’t fantastic either.

“Jen – I’m here if you wanna’ talk man I-”

“Never mind,” he sighed, wincing inwardly as he pulled himself from underneath Jared’s touch, barricading himself into his corner none too subtly using the body of his guitar and his bent leg as a roadblock. “We gonna’ write this song or not?”


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helpful Reminders:  
> Marpel = Mark Pellegrino   
> Marsh = Mark Sheppard  
> Genco - Genevieve Cortez.

Part Two

Son Of A Gun

Jensen shared an apartment with his sister and his band-mate, something that had never really been a problem until now. The place was big, larger than any of their childhood homes had been, floors tiled with marble and laminate, clapper lights and multiple ovens and a fridge that Jensen had long ago agreed was larger than his family’s car. It had been one of Sheppard’s many investments, putting a roof over the heads of his human projects – simply so that they were all in one place if he ever needed them on short notice (which was often the case with Marsh – bastard got an idea in his head and there’d be a car waiting to pick them up in no less than fifteen). Misha and Genevieve lived separately, Collins with his wife and kid, Gen with her sister. Jared, Matt and Mark all had their own apartments, Marsh living above The Bunker and the sound studios, Matt not living far away and Jared – well the bitch had a penthouse that Jensen would never admit he was envious of (but that was a story for another day). 

But as it was – sharing with his sister and his friend had never really been a problem… until now.

He’d never been over-the-top, prided himself in the fact that he hadn’t let the fame or the money go to his head and make him a dick like it had some of the people they had to meet and greet on an almost weekly basis. But Jensen made a point of slamming the front door shut all the same. They’d left long after he and Jared had finished writing, the lyrics for Son Of A Gun now long locked away in the depths of Marsh’s office (he was a paranoid son of a bitch), the band seeming to have taken residence in the apartment’s living room, clustered and draped on furniture, four pairs of startled eyes settling on his hunched form as he stormed his way through making a beeline for the sanctity of his own bedroom. Genco and Misha were still there, Collins draped across the sofa, head in Marpel’s lap, steadily flicking popcorn up into Mark’s waiting mouth, Gen curled around herself in one of the egg chairs by the television. Misha would have to leave soon and Gen would probably hitch a lift with him, then all he’d have to deal with would be Mark and Danny – more Danny than anyone else as she so often took it upon herself to narrate his life’s problems. That reminded him… he still had revenge to plan. 

“Well look what the cat dragged-”

“Save it Dan – not in the mood,” he spat, disappearing down the corridor. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Jensen paused by his door, throwing a look over his shoulder as he caught Genevieve shrugging on her coat. Boy had he been right about them leaving.

“He’s in a mood,” Danny muttered, shifting in her seat, “because he’s IN LOVE WITH THE BOSS!”

Jen knew she’d raised her voice on purpose just so he could hear, not that she wasn’t loud enough already. The grip he had on the door handle tightened, cold metal digging uncomfortably into the palm of his hand as he weighed up his options, slip into his room without comment or smother his sister and live the life of an only child but risk being incarcerated. 

“And he won’t admit it to himself,” Mark added.

“Which is sad really.” Fucking Misha.

“I am not in love with the boss,” Jensen gritted out, head thunking none too gently against the wood of his door.

“Settle down Princess,” Marpel called, steady crunch of popcorn audible even from where Jensen still stood down the hall. “We’re just messin’ with you.”

“Pretty testy for a guy who-”

“Shut the fuck up Dan!”

At that he slipped into his room, door slamming loud enough behind him that he could still hear it long after he’d collapsed onto his bed, face in his pillows, more than happy to suffocate himself into oblivion. He could hear them muttering outside, the steady scrape of furniture, heels and rubber soles clapping against the wooden floors of their shared living space, hasty goodbyes, hushed concerns. He knew he was acting like a teenager, knew that he was being ridiculous but that didn’t mean he could stop it. Jensen huffed out a breath and rolled onto his side, curling in on himself like he’d done as a kid, back bent to the door, gaze fixed on the changing numbers of his bedside clock.

His eyes flicked to the framed photos on his wall, pictures from his childhood, of pets and family, tree houses and boats and fishing trips, golf and soccer and College. Out of the twelve that lined the white washed walls at least eight of them had that six foot something pain in the ass grinning stupidly at whoever it was who had taken the picture, white teeth, dimples and tanned skin matching Jensen’s own eye-crinkling smiles. Jensen didn’t really have that many pictures of himself from when he was a kid, most of those had been lost along the way or purposefully forgotten, but Jen found that his fondest memories contained that lanky piece of Texan sunshine, his dogs or the acoustic guitar he’d bought him when they’d both graduated. 

At the centre of them all was that one photograph, the one they’d had copied and put on Jay’s cake when he’d turned twenty one, the one Marpel and Misha had jokingly set to his desktop background when he’d been out one of the days and hadn’t quite gotten around the changing back. It had been the middle of winter, so cold Jensen had almost lost two of his fingers and at least four of his toes to the ice, snow up to his knees, nose red, cheeks bitten pink by the wind. He looked younger there, eyes a little bit brighter, hair far blonder (he’d gone through a faze), face buried inside a hood lined with fur and fluff, arms wrapped around his chest. He’d dithered until he’d had no teeth left, paused for the photo his mama had taken during the break, one of the last times he’d seen her well. And, Jared being Jared, had wrapped one huge hulking arm around his shoulders, unzipped his ski coat and shoved him inside to the point where their two bodies were nearly indiscernible from one another, just one torso with four legs and two grinning heads. It had been one of the coldest winters to date – but it had been one of his most memorable. 

Who wouldn’t fall in love with a guy who could verbalise what Jensen could never put into words, lyrically and emotionally – who would shove him inside his own coat to stop him freezing to death, save him the last slice of pizza on a Friday night because it had the most cheese on, who’d cared enough about his health and general well-being he’d forced him off alcohol full stop because (as he’d put it) ‘it’s it or it’s me Jen – it’s your choice’. He’d quit because Jared had asked him to – not for himself. Jared was six foot four inches of candy consuming warmth, heart and sunshine – who in their right freakin’ mind wouldn’t fall for that?

Jen rolled onto his back, tearing his eyes away from the bastard’s smiling face, hands crawling down the side of his mattress to make a grab for the neck of his guitar. He pulled it onto his stomach, calloused fingertips bathing the strings in soft caresses, pinpricks of sound lulling his humming ears as he plucked at them mindlessly, eyes closed, head engulfed and enveloped in the softness of his pillows. He’d long ago accepted in College his general attraction to his best friend, forced to acknowledge it again when some fate-weaving dick upstairs had forced them back together in the business. He was too pro at dealing with himself it barely fazed him anymore – it was just the world and his wife making his life a nightmare about it that rubbed him up the wrong way. It was his problem – no one else’s. If he couldn’t sort it out then no one could. 

“Jen?”

He hadn’t heard her come in though he made no move to acknowledge her presence, Jensen’s hands coming down against the strings of the acoustic in his hands to elicit more noise – a vague attempt to block her out. But, if there was something Jensen had learnt from all his years existing with and living alongside his sister, it was that Danneel Ackles could not be tuned out.

He frowned a little as he felt the mattress give under the weight of another body, his right foot dipping a little as she perched herself at the foot of his bed, hand coming to rest lightly against his ankle. Jensen didn’t kick her of off which Danny seemed to take as an encouraging sign, shivering slightly as she worked her thumb in tiny circles through the denim of his jeans, soothing, gentle – like a handler calming an animal. 

“How’d it go?”

She huffed out a breath when Jensen didn’t reply, simply increasing his efforts to block out her sound, acoustic noise filling his room random and off-key.

“You know you’re acting like a child right?”

Jensen frowned. The thought had crossed his mind – yes. 

“If you just told him-”

Yeah – she wasn’t going to quit.

“Where’s that gonna’ get me Danny – really?”

He’d meant to sound snappy, petulant – even angry, but even he was shocked to find his voice tired. He opened his eyes to find her face bereft of the irritancy he’d heard and felt in her voice, replaced by a sickening concern he neither wanted nor cared for, especially the waves of sympathy that followed as she breathed out another heavy sigh. 

“Got you this far Jen-” she murmured, retracting her hand.

“Sounds like admittance to me,” Mark offered, arms crossed over his chest, body resting against the doorframe.

He somehow decided then that smothering his entire household would not solve his problems, the revelation taking the wind from his sails and leaving him floating adrift in amongst the cushions and blankets of his bed. The guitar he’d been playing felt like a dead weight against his abdomen making it difficult for him to breathe, so much so he had to push it off onto the mattress for him to get the air he needed into his lungs. He conformed, if they were gonna’ call him a kid then he was going to act like one, rolling back onto his side and turning his back on his sister and the shadow of Mark, gaze once again falling on the flashing green numbers of his clock.

“Get out – both of you.”

(.:.)  
The morning was a warm one, bright and hazy as the air above the tarmac shimmered and shivered in the heat of the sun, warmth prickling the skin on his exposed arms and shoulders, nipping neatly at the backs of his heels as the soles of his sneakers devoured sidewalk. There was a numbness that came from running that Jared enjoyed, a simplicity that allowed his mind to wind down before the job, steady thump of his feet against concrete, slight burn in his chest from physical exertion, taste of sweat crisp and familiar as it settled salty and sharp on his tongue. 

Galveston’s Seawall Boulevard wasn’t the prettiest of places, mostly sea on one side and parking lots and warehouses on the other, but it gave Jared a change of scenery and it had been Matt’s choice – Jared had gotten to pick location last time and it only seemed fair. They continued their ventures in companionable silence, Jared secretly glad to see Matt off his headset and mobile for once, the guy seemingly content to eat up the miles alongside him, easily keeping pace with Jared’s long and practiced strides, Matt’s own gait strong and confident. Jared studied him out of the corner of his eye, searching for clues as to what had Jensen so riled up and out of character. Sure Matt was attractive – both the girls thought it and even the guys had sat down and brought it up over a beer or two on a slow night. He was classically handsome in every sense of the term, angular face, golden skin, athletically built and ripped to boot. Matt wasn’t the kind of guy to show off about it, he was a nice kid who was good at his job and respectful to those he kept the company of, though if ever he had a few to drink the guy transformed into a borderline exhibitionist, much to the joy of Misha and Marpel who’d play him up for it something awful. 

Jared recalled a time when, as ridiculous as it sounded, Matt had spilt coffee on his shirt and had to change for an appointment and, being short of time, had made a quick switch from one shirt to another in the middle of the office which had had the whole of Winchester and Sons’ world coming to a complete standstill. Marpel’s jaw had dropped, Danny had almost passed out and Misha had almost pissed himself laughing as the world around him came skittering to a halt, the only thing kick-starting everything back into motion being Marsh’s voice ringing out over the phone that if Matt didn’t put his fucking shirt on soon then the girls and possibly Misha would be grating cheese against his abs in no time and he didn’t want fucking cheddar shavings on his motherfucking laminate because that wasn’t in the cleaner’s contract – something along those lines anyway. All in all it had been a learning curve for all of them.

Jared liked Matt’s company – always had. He’d met Cohen in College on his business management course and they’d hit it off, talked of complex things over coffees and papers and helped each other through their exams. They both had a love of the outdoors and had spent a lot of time together as such, adopting mornings as bro-time in a bid to keep fit and stave off office fat which haunted the both of them like a ghost, always of the periphery of their thoughts as they rotted in their office chairs taking calls and sorting clients and gigs. And he still enjoyed his company now – even if Jensen was possiblysortofcouldmaybebe dating him. Maybe. 

The feeling had bothered him ever since it’d been brought up the Thursday before, not that it had reoccurred in conversation since. Being a Monday Jared had barely seen or heard a peep from Jensen all weekend, band taking the Friday off to recuperate for a busy week of interviews and public appearances the week after, each of them returning to their own personal corners of life to snatch a few days of reality. Jared loved his house and loved his dogs but, turning the key in his door that Thursday night, the place had seemed far emptier than it had felt before, floor tiles cold as he’d padded barefoot over to his fridge and devoured much of its contents before turning in for the night, bed even bigger and colder than the apartment as he’d lain their looking up at his ceiling and waited for sleep to claim him. 

He didn’t really understand what bothered him so much, just that the conversation and Jen’s caginess about the topic had left a lead weight in chest and throat he couldn’t quite shift, undecided as to whether that was down to Jensen’s unwillingness to share with his best friend or something else entirely – something Jared really didn’t want to touch on. He still liked Matt – though every moment of thought that occurred in their ‘companionable silence’, as they continued to pound the pavement in sync, the more it began to play on him. In the end, Jared found himself far too wound up, relenting with a highly audible exhale.

“Can I ask you a question man?” 

Matt shrugged and smiled, “whatever Jarpad – hit me.”

Jared opened his mouth, thought better and shut it again, Matt offering him a curious look but remaining silent. He didn’t exactly know how to word such a thing – it wasn’t like you asked a guy you’d worked almost your entire professional life with if he was gay and banging a band member, such things just didn’t slot into everyday running conversation. He sighed.

“Jared? Man is something-”

“Are you with Jensen?”

The words were out of his mouth before he could even think – Jared taking a moment to congratulate himself and pat his own back for putting it so eloquently (without the use of the terms ‘bang’, ‘bone’ or ‘fuck’). Matt faltered a little in his stride, toe of his trainers catching on a slab and sending him reeling, Jared’s hand shooting out to grab the guy’s bicep before he face planted the ground – not something he’d fancy explaining to Mark. So er – oh the broken nose and swollen face? Yeah - I just asked the guy if he was sleeping with Jensen and he kind of – sidewalk looked worse let me tell you that.

“Where the hell did you get that idea from?” He gasped, leaning back against the sea wall, running coming to a standstill. 

“I er-” Jared muttered, running a hand through his hair, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Jen got a text Thursday during our writing session – from your phone. He got all weird about it and I was just wonderin’ if – you and him – he was actin’ pretty weird man.”

Matt palmed the sweat from his forehead, slightly incredulous smile replacing the initial shock giving Jared chance to breathe again. He hadn’t killed the guy – that was a bonus. He’d have been fucking difficult to replace. 

“Don’t get me wrong Jared Jen’s a great guy and-”

So Matt was laughing way more than he should have been giving Jared the feeling he’d got the wrong end of the stick entirely. He had no idea if Matt swung that way let alone Jensen, the heat rising in his cheeks even more at the thought of how wrong he’d been. What the hell was wrong with him?

“So I’m guessing-”

“Girlfriend Jared – I’m seeing someone and she definitely isn’t six foot whatever of Texas man-steak.”

Jared had to admit Jensen was six foot something of Texas man-steak but he was in no hurry to voice that fleeting thought out loud. They leant against the wall to get their breaths back, Jared’s loss of lung capacity through the combination of jogging and exasperation, Matt’s through laughing so hard he could have sworn he’d peed a little. A thought struck him as they sat there, sharp concrete digging into the backs of his thighs, that the mystery remained open – something that had the guy gritting his teeth slightly in frustration. The whole thing was too complicated for him to grasp a hold of. Surely it couldn’t be this difficult?

“So Matt-”

“Danny,” he smiled, “if you must know. Batted her eyelashes – said she was out of minutes on her cell.”

Jared raised an eyebrow, “Then what the hell did she text him to make him freak out like that?”

His PA shrugged, “beats me man – she deleted the text after she sent it. Looks to me like we’ve got a mystery on our hands.”

“No shit.”

(.:.)

Jensen decided that night he would avoid social contact for the weekend – and that he did. 

Monday’s were great days for Winchester and Sons. Having not seen each other socially or creatively for what is considered by many to be a healthy amount of time they often returned to the The Bunker with knots of pent up energy pulsing through each and every muscle, the guys taking it out on each other, the girls taking it out on anyone who would listen to them. Mondays went one of two ways – a creative and artistic bombshell that’d have Marsh bouncing off the walls and Matt never off his phone with record labels or, as was the case more often than not, a complete excuse to piss of the management team and get very little done. As it happened though, this day in particular turned out to be the former. 

Early morning sunlight drifted hazily through the high windows, cleaving the floor apart where it hit. Danny lay through one such bolt, abdomen cut clean through by a golden beam that had steadily been making its way across the floor, each hour that passed engulfing more and more of her body until she’d eventually be glowing, hair on fire, eyes alight. Acoustic energy wafted gently through The Bunker, sound room devouring the waves and ricocheting them back, their whole world engulfed in noise and energy. Voices muttered from afar were lost on the ever growing tides, the thrum of the vibrations rocking each member to their core. It was the first time any of them had heard Jarred and Jensen’s brainchild (one of many I might add), and despite not knowing the lyrics Genevieve was already humming along, curled up as she was alongside Marpel and Dan who, Jensen had decided, were public enemy number one and would not get a rise out of him no matter how many times they elbowed each other and gestured his way. 

He’d accepted the fact that they wouldn’t give in - though that didn’t necessarily mean he had to like or accept it. At three o’clock Saturday morning, tangled in his sheets, comforting feel of his strings beneath the worn pads of his fingers he’d made the decision that enlisting the one and only master assassin Misha Collins would get the revenge job done far more cleanly and efficiently than if he were to go about the task himself. He had no ideas outside strangling the lot of them so had no pointers to offer, though he was more than happy to let the guy take the lead on the project. Misha had a lot of ideas, mostly illegal, so that was a good place to start.

"My hand reaches out for the Heaven’s these greying skies  
But I close my eyes, I close my aching eyes.  
These scissors I’m grasping sever these tension ties  
So I close my eyes, I close my aching eyes." 

Despite having not gone over their work for a fair few days, Jensen found the lyrics and melody easy enough to recall. The half of him he’d input into the two pages of lyrics poured from his hands as though the words were almost pleased to be recollected, spilling from strings and lips alike until, lost as he was in the entirety of it all, he’d found he’d come to a stop. The Bunker still hummed with trapped noise, the air around them electrified with more than just the dregs of sound. From his vintage point on the sound stage he had a good view of the proceedings below, his group having gone from lounging against the sofas to perched on the edges of their seats, Matt and Marsh having paused at the door – a more than smug look matching the dollar signs in his eyes. 

It was the one thing Jen found he hated most about performance arts – the actually having to perform part. He envied those to whom it came natural, Marpel and Danny just sliding into their roles as leads as soon as their names were called by the crowd, able to feed off the energy, amp it up, electrify and inspire. His sister wasn’t a creative genius but she was a lead through and through, commanding attention, directing it – able to pull a crowd back and push them away into themselves at the drop of a hat. And Mark – well he had his own ‘unique’ brand of command. Jensen had found Genevieve Cortez in College and realised then that he could still live the dream and meld into the background at the same time. She’d been a small, shy, dark haired and bright eyed little thing with a voice to rival Danny’s but a particularly unique brand of ego that matched Jensen’s own, a desire not to command but to create, to harmonise and to add, to take the shadows as they were and give those that knew how to handle the light the ability to do so. 

Jensen was mentally halfway off stage by the time Misha had arrived, metal of the garage door screaming as he fought his way through, small blonde creature in tow. Whatever had held the band to their chairs was now broken, Jen breathing out a highly audible sigh of relief as they swarmed the kid, Marpel scooping the little Collins up in his arms as the women cooed and fussed over him, Danny’s hands already combing through his hair, Genco planting little soft kisses on the kid’s nose. He almost lost it at the look on Marsh’s face, his panic and obvious discomfort from around a minute ago seeping away every moment spent looking at the manager, mouth agape, Matt bracing himself in the shadows at the threat of the oncoming outburst. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he muttered, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I’m on duty today guys.”

“He brought the kid…”

Mark looked as though he was going to pass out, obviously not having been part of the ‘bring your son to work day’ memo. Cohen was out the door before he could say another word, smart enough to realise that the wrath of Marsh was not something one man could take on alone, the poor guy probably barricading himself into his office for fear of his own life, safety and/or sanity. 

“He brought the fuc-”

“It’s alright,” Jensen interrupted into the microphone, wincing a little as it shivered and hissed out over the speakers, his sister throwing him a pained expression. He made sure to tap it gently before speaking again. “Marsh it’s fine. We can have him – he can chill with us can’t you West?”

(.:.)

Jared Padalecki considered himself to be a highly functioning human being – life had never really given him evidence to assume otherwise. He was good at tests, had an overall clean bill of health, good hair and teeth, could memorise and count and multiply and say the alphabet backwards. His mama had taught him right in the ways of etiquette and manners, he had a good sound knowledge of the business he worked in and wasn’t bad at churning out the odd hit every now and again when asked. But the one thing Jared Padalecki could not do (and I might add – never could) was balance. 

Balancing is like multi-tasking for your body. There’s a lot to think about at once and, although incredibly good at balancing books whilst chatting to event organisers in the midst of a merchandise design session, Jared could never get his head (or body) around the logistics of everything. Legs were too long, arms didn’t listen, feet seemed to seek out everything possible on which to catch themselves – sometimes existing was a waking nightmare. And it was because of this that Jared despised lunch-runs. 

It just so happened that, on this glorious Monday afternoon, he found himself hauling his way awkwardly through the many fire doors of The Bunker, arms and shoulders and elbows and armpits laden with a wide variety of foodstuffs and liquids that’d already taken residence on his person somewhere or another, scarf ends dipped in Misha’s soup, Danny’s caffeine fix staining the right lapel of his white shirt. His glasses were balanced precariously over the edge of his nose as if contemplating optical suicide, his hair captured by his lashes and threatening to blind and, to top it all off, his jeans seemed to have undertaken the arduous process of travelling south. Monday wasn’t his day. 

He backed carefully into the main room of The Bunker, sliding the metal door over with the loops of his belt and the sheer willpower of his ass, stumbling once to regain some semblance of that long sought after balance as he paused to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the change in lighting. He’d left The Bunker in the clutches of chaos, had almost been knocked down by Cohen as the guy had hurried his way over to his office to re-enact the more defensively architectural scenes of Les Miserables. Mark had been on a war path, Danny losing her rag in defence of the mini-Misha, Marpel and the older Collins taking the colossal distraction that was Danneel Ackles ‘off on one’ to herd the kid towards the stage where Jensen beckoned to him with open arms and shifting eyes, Genco offering her lap up in service. He’d decided not to interrupt lest he be drawn into the fray, settling on a lunch-run over a Danny-Marsh showdown. Lunch-runs were far more preferable to nuclear holocausts and so, shopping list mentally in tow, he’d escaped with his tail between his legs, ears alert to any danger that may or may not have been biting at his heels upon his speedy departure. 

Things seemed to have calmed, good news for the neighbours, the band and whatever police officers would have had to have turned up at the scene of the crime to take witness statements and bag up evidence. He sighed outwardly in relief, the power of his exhale somehow managing to push him that little bit off kilter, an apple and a pot of yoghurt falling from an elbow crook to be caught by two waiting hands. Marpel stood with his arms smugly crossed over his chest, rubbing some semblance of shine back into the fruit before taking a bite (Jared trying to shake off the fact that that was in fact Matt’s apple). The look quickly faded however and balance (metaphorically) was restored to the situation, the singer helping his younger boss unload some of his burden, Jared not even able to verbalise the gratitude he felt towards his ‘good Samaritan’, conscious of the fact anything that came out of his mouth would end up being spoken far too soon. Yeah – Mark was a great guy, but everything came with a price. He had, after all, spent far too much time around Misha Collins for it to be any other way. 

“Missed the fireworks Jared?”

“You could say that,” he smiled, running a free hand through his hair, quickly fixing all that needed fixing before sorting through the bundle in his arms. “Didn’t fancy the drama ya’know?”

Mark scoffed, licking the fruit juice from his thumb before it had a chance to run beneath his sleeve, “drama – that was a fucking showdown! Danny never struck me as the maternal type.”

“Yeah well – the more you know.”

Jared was in the middle of stacking lunches when it began (Mark ‘retiring’ from his good deeds to take up residence on the nearest sofa). Things had been pretty quiet, the main bulk of the music dying down around one o’clock to make way for sound checks and play-throughs, instruments ferried in and out, strings plucked and retuned, Misha giving his drum kit a bash for what sounded like the hell of it. It was only when the dust had begun to settle that he heard it, snatches of sound that threw him back far too many years, pinpricks of a melody that pinched his skin and gave rise to the hair on his arms and the nape of his neck. Because Jared hadn’t heard Angeles since Jensen had last sung it in college, right before he’d begun dating Genevieve during their last semester. It was a song he’d had nothing to do with save listen, learn and love, had played along with the chords he’d picked up when Jen had let him, stolen lyric and music sheets when the guy had slept just so he could be a part of something Jensen had always kept so private. He’d always said it was a song from the ‘Dark Ages’ – something they didn’t talk about. So to hear it – to hear it made Jared’s heart still in his chest to a point where he found himself choking on the fizzy lace he held against his tongue. 

"I could make you satisfied in everything you do  
All your ‘secret wishes’ could right now be coming true  
And be forever with my poison arms around you."

He didn’t know if something was wrong or if this something was incredibly right. It should have scared him to death. The ‘Dark Ages’ were so called for a reason, and for this to be dragged out in the open, to actually be performed by the guy that couldn’t sing into a hairbrush in front of the mirror for fear of his own eyes on himself – surely something had to be on his mind. But Jared found himself stopping mid-sort, fingertips brushing the fuzzy outer coating of a peach he’d acquired for Jensen, thumb pricked by the sharp corner of Genevieve’s pasta salad box. But it didn’t matter – Jensen was singing, Jensen Ackles was performing without a care in the world to a kid that looked as though he had stars in his eyes, small hands resting against the worn denim of the singer’s knees, Gen’s hands steadying him as she harmonised. He was looking at West whilst he was singing – meaning of the song and the words that made up such lost on young and naïve ears. The world narrowed in to those three on stage, stage lights caressing their bent backs, weaving its way through the golden strands of West’s hair. 

But Jared found he didn’t really have eyes for anyone else, recovering as he was from his near death experience, rainbow lace half bitten and held limp between thumb and forefinger out of harm’s way. Jensen sung quietly – intimately like he’d used to. It was something he only ever really did when they were together, whether that was through their song sessions on a Thursday morning or in their apartments when they chilled out after work or back in college where Jared had curled himself up at the end of his best friend’s bed to watch him play. But this was how he’d always wanted Jen to be, comfortable in the presence of the world and his wife, perched in denim and in plaid on a stool in the light, microphone at his lips, strings pulled taught beneath the calloused pads of his fingertips. And his voice had stayed the same all those years, warm and dry like honey and sandalwood, rough and raw and fresh and hardened like leather and whiskey. And it was beautiful – he was beautiful… the best God damn sound in the world. 

“Padalecki?”

His eyes darted down, a blush colouring his cheeks despite his best efforts to stop the spread. He was met by a pair of smiling brown eyes, eyes so lovely they’d made grown men cry and other run for the hills. He felt like running for the hills.

“Danny I er – lunch. I got lunch.”

“You alright there boss?” Mark shouted down from the stage, running a hand through Jensen’s hair on passing, Jen dropping his guitar for a moment to bat at the singer, laughing all the while.

“Fine,” he muttered. “FINE!” He added again, realising the former had been more to himself than the rest of the room. 

“Y’sure?” Danny smirked, lips puckered around the edge of her coffee cup, manicured nails coming up to finger the stain on his lapel. “Y’don’t look fine.”

It was his turn to bat her away, “I said I’m fine,” he muttered, forcing himself to look away from her prying gaze. She was too good at making people uncomfortable – that reminded him. Where had Marsh gotten to?

“That was nice Jen… and Gen. Really nice – good job West!”

He extricated himself from the clutches of the band’s most dangerous, heading in the general direction of the office as they swarmed the sofas like the hungry little locusts they were, an all-consuming wave of coffee fumes and pent up energy. Genevieve wrapped her arms around his waist quickly on passing, all hair and perfume as she disappeared from his grasp in nought but a stride, Jared turning to find her buried in amongst the writhing bodies of the others as she delved further for her salad. He took a moment to watch the feeding frenzy, small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Fame hadn’t changed a single one of them – something he’d prayed nightly for since their first song had played out over the radio. Danneel was still a heartbreaker, Genevieve was still the sweetest thing this side of the Atlantic and Misha and Marpel had both remained the same denim wrapped nightmares they’d always been – just with more money to burn and a public image to ruin. And then there was Jensen – who was apparently staring at him.

Of course he’d averted his eyes the moment Jared had noticed but that didn’t mean he could immediately shake off the feeling. The weight of those eyes settled on his skin like heat, prickling up his arms and legs and spine like static. It wasn’t uncomfortable but it managed to elicit a shiver, something Jared covered with a stretch and a yawn – incredibly nonchalant, master of disguise. He could have sworn there’d been a blush to his friend’s skin that hadn’t been there before, a petal pink hue to the apples of his cheeks that was neither the child of warmth or embarrassment. Any indication he’d caught a look he shouldn’t have was long gone, Jensen’s attentions purely on the antics of the terrible twosome who were busy scrapping over the remains of Matt’s apple, half bitten and bruised though that didn’t mean it was any less of a prize to be one. Jared left them both precariously perched over the side of the sofa, the rest of the band egging them on from where they lounged elsewhere, Jared heading off in search for his partner in crime who was probably still in the process of digging his way through Cohen’s carefully constructed barricade. 

He could still feel his eyes on him as he slipped through the garage door.


End file.
